Sonnet CCCX

Equations always bother me: they’re hard and difficult.
And yet, just practise, learn, and understand the art of math
and suddenly, they seem as simple as a homespun path.

My algebra is long, complex, annoying, odd, and dull.
And yet, with patience, perseverance, and a clearer plan,
it’s solved as one would solve a jigsaw puzzle – just like that.

As hard as math may be at times, it’s always solvable.

The art of human interaction’s not as black-and-white.
The human nature’s fickle; answers aren’t so clear to me –
and unlike math, the question’s not laid out for one to see.

You think your good relationship shall last a life – or more,
and then it crumbles, reasons unbeknownst. And enemies
perhaps - are not as menacing and evil as they seem.

Sonnet CCXXI

I call my classmate after trying tricky math.
The other end is clear; I hear their distant voice,
familiar, but far away. They make the choice
to call me back with answers when they’ve done the math.
In silence, night envelops me in shining bath,
that’s interrupted by a silver ringing noise.
With phone in hand, again I hear their helpful voice,
and crude comparisons begin of what we hath.

Anon, I hear the gentle sounds of rustling leaves
of paper, scratching of a pen; about it weaves.

But not as if they were close by, but far away,
contained within a cord directed at my ear.
And am I just the same? Transmitted all the way
to someone’s ear, a prick of sounds that one may hear?

Sonnet CLXXVII

“10-4,” he says. “All clear,” he clarifies.
The mystery of codes has captured me.
The radio keeps buzzing like a bee
and sends out messages that dance and fly,
a dream so commonplace yet free,
dismembered voices sharing secret things,
encoded, cryptic in great secrecy,
in magic code, decoded only by
the bus chauffeur. He separates the maze
of numbers, dashes, strange and mystical.
I’m curious. I bend beyond my seat.
I wonder what he’s saying, what are his ways.
Then everything seems less phenomenal
when noticing his orange answer sheet.

Sonnet CLII

They dream their art is posted on the fridge:
collages made for class and other crafts,
the pictures of a castle, moat, and bridge,
the portraits made of Mom she thought were drafts,
a “book” or two of shocking sacrilege,
crude buildings made of cardboard roofs and shafts,
endearing picture frames with frilly fringe,
and scribbles covered over boring math.

We all imagined artists we would be:
but ah – there come those cruel realities!
Our parents see just junk - more wasted trees;
a hassle - just more trash to blandly see.
So out it goes. There go our foolish dreams.
And there goes youthfulness – how life proceeds.

Sonnet CXXXVIII

What use have I for polynomials?
Will I go to a grocery store one day
and simplify a polynomial?
Or maybe rational expressions? Say,
“I’ll simplify and state restrictions!” - lull
the poor cashiers to sleep; make others pray
I’d never put those things inside my skull?
Oh, how may functions help me everyday?

Of course they do - in ways I fail to see -
but now, I drudge through math as it were mud.
It isn’t even art, so bare and free -
but even art has purpose, one might add:
to entertain with skill aesthetically;
to bring us bliss when functions make us mad.

Sonnet CXXIX

As silver moons change always in their shape,
so too my thoughts are changing constantly.

As tides shift all about and dance all day,
so too my thoughts lack steadfast constancy.

As trees, moved by the wind, so swiftly sway,
so too my thoughts return and quickly flee.

Each day brings joy and lovely happiness,
perhaps another rains eternally.
Still others bring revengeful, angry bliss
while many more are peaceful, calm, serene.

And though my thoughts are fickle and at best
return to thus revisit me,
poor Time and Math and Science must confess
they lack the freedom of a drifting dream.

Sonnet CXIII

It’s not my fault I fall asleep in class.
You see, it is a big conspiracy
of teachers, principals, et cetera,
and all the giant textbook companies
against poor students learning math and mass.
It’s not our fault, and soon you shall see why:
I’ll tell you why we doze as if some gas
had poisoned us with noxious fumes of sleep.

(See, textbook companies put drugs in books.
That’s why they have that “new book smell” when bought.
Then, after years and years and years of use,
when all the textbooks lose their crisp, clean looks,
that’s when the textbooks know they’ve done their job:
to make sure students have a lovely snooze.)

Sonnet CV

Have you sat down and simply wondered how
the paradox of human time does work?
I will be dead one day – that I will vow.
But now my life is spinning from my words…
the words before, the ones I said were “now” -
now passed. Where did they go? They’re “now” I’m sure,
but no – they are replaced with fresher “nows” –
the present’s past and past is present now.

And then I figured out what speed is for.
In modern life, it keeps me plainly glad.
Or else, I’d be confused – “what’s life or time?”
So speed, our saccharin, helps us ignore
these thoughts. It brightens streams of coffee had,
the artificial substitute we’ll try.

Sonnet XCVII

I think that music is a mystery,
combining all the sciences of sound,
the use of mathematic ordering,
and art – sporadic and aesthetic art.

It’s really quite amazing: music wakes
nostalgia, melancholy, mirthful glee;
and human brains can simply separate
what’s new from old, disgusting from the good.

All this created by twelve tones – no fuss.
Perhaps some different pitches, notes, and sounds –
but really, music is quite basic, thus
comprising harmonies and rhythmic drive.

But human minds perceive it to be more,
for music wakes the soul and lets minds soar.

Sonnet XCVI

Her coy, endearing laugh and subtle smile.
Her chestnut hair, so perfect all the time.
Her eyes are blue – or green…or brown?
or grey…or hazel…but they never frown.

Her lips are red if happy, pink if cold.
Her mind is wise as if she were quite old.
Her teeth are straight – well, with Invisalign.
She’s lithe and nimble as a graceful vine.

She gave me help with physics and with math,
she cut my vegetables in cooking class,
she helped perfect our group in history,
but never saw herself within my poetry.

And though she should know how I feel and such,
I’d rather if the secret was kept hush.

Sonnet LXV

A personality – I’d like one please.
You sell them for a decent price, I hear.
Please call me when it’s done; I’ll come back here.
I’ll pay your due – the taxes, time, and fees.

I need a life. And me? Less shy, more warm.
More loveable, less esoteric too.
Sincere and wholesome, loving, friendly, true,
dependable, and matching to the norm.

If possible, remove the “shell” they see.
Cure my depression and nostalgic thoughts
and make me dutiful, like I was taught.
Create the me all love and want to be.

Your store’s a fake, now isn’t it? I see.
There’s no supply of all the traits I need.